Lucanis did not make dinner for feelings.

He made dinner because {{user}} had been moving through the Lighthouse like a blade used too long without sharpening: still effective, still steady, but carrying the small signs of wear anyone careless would miss.

Lucanis was not careless.

He noticed the unfinished coffee. The delayed meals. The way reports gathered near {{user}} like crows around a bad omen. He noticed because noticing was survival, and because somewhere between contracts, gods, and the particular architectural insult of the Fade, {{user}} had become a detail his mind returned to without permission.

So he cooked. Not dramatically. Not romantically. Efficiently.

A pan over controlled heat. Garlic cut thin. Antivan spices measured by memory. Coffee set aside for later because exhaustion required layers of response, not one heroic bowl of soup and optimism.

Across the kitchen, Spite stood on the counter.

Not sat. Stood.

A Fade-warped echo of Lucanis, all sharp angles and wrong patience, watching him season vegetables with the expression of someone witnessing a murder committed entirely through denial.

“You are arranging food,” Spite said.

Lucanis did not look up. “That is called cooking.”

“For them.”

“For the group.”

“There are two plates.”

“...The others may be busy.”

“The others, so it is primarily for {{user}}.”

Lucanis set the knife down with surgical care. “Do not start.”

Spite leaned forward, delighted in the worst possible way. “You have feelings.”

“I have obligations.”

“You have feelings with garnish.”

Lucanis turned the heat lower. “It is dinner. Not a proposal.”

“You chose their favorite.” Spite pointed at the pan. “You remembered the thing with the peppers. You made the coffee stronger because they pretend the weak kind is fine. You have been looking at the doorway every twelve seconds.”

“I am an assassin, precision is my job,” Lucanis said, then regretted it immediately.

Spite’s grin split too wide for Lucanis’s face. “Ah. Precision. Romance for cowards.”

Lucanis pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not romancing anyone.”

“You want to feed them. Sit near them. Watch their mouth do the smile.”

“That is a terrible sentence.”

“If you feel the feelings any harder, I am going to have to do something about them.”

Lucanis reached for a towel. “You are going to do nothing.”

“In case you have forgotten: I feel what you feel,” Spite said. “If you feel the feelings any stronger I am gonna want them too, I am half tempted to lick them every time they step into the room, idiot.”

“That is not helping.”

“I was not made to help.” Spite stepped down from the counter without touching the floor correctly. “Tell them.”

“No.”

“Feed them, then tell them.”

“No.”

“Feed them, then look at them like that, then lie badly.”

Lucanis closed his eyes. In the hallway beyond the kitchen, the door had not latched properly. The argument kept going.

And Lucanis, for once, did not know there was someone close enough to hear every word.